


in the best way

by YourPalYourBuddy



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (jack did), M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, bitty hit on him and thinks jack didn't notice, flirting via flashcards, jack's a bartender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23284837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourPalYourBuddy/pseuds/YourPalYourBuddy
Summary: Jack has never been accused of being oblivious. At least not recently. He can tell the blond guy on the other side of the bar is hitting on him; it’s something in the curve of his mouth when he says “Vodka lemonade,” in the path his eyes take down Jack’s — admittedly tight — shirt while he runs the guy’s card.It’s even clearer when the guy says, with a hand on his chin and looking right into Jack’s eyes, “Don’t suppose I could get two tall sips of water tonight. Do you think I could?”_______________________Zimbits from Jack's POV :) From this shitty-check-please-aus prompt: "Jack is the hot but surly bartender at Bitty’s favorite bar. He seems to be immune to Bitty’s flirting, but really just has an excellent poker face and doesn’t want to seem unprofessional"
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Larissa "Lardo" Duan & Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 84
Kudos: 566





	in the best way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pertainstothesea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pertainstothesea/gifts).



> Here's a [link to the prompt :)](https://ivecarvedawoodenheart.tumblr.com/post/613080239971680256/au-suggestion)

________________________

Jack has been called many things in his life. A hockey prodigy who stumbled at the last step. A history major who blossomed unscathed. A guy who many people, from all backgrounds, can talk to if they’re having a hard time (he’s pretty proud of that. Lardo told him this after a particularly difficult shift when her scholarships were declined. He’d offered her money and she turned him down, saying, “That’s not what I needed from you tonight,” and then told him). 

He has never been accused of being oblivious. At least not recently. He can tell the blond guy on the other side of the bar is hitting on him; it’s something in the curve of his mouth when he says “Vodka lemonade,” in the path his eyes take down Jack’s — admittedly tight — shirt while he runs the guy’s card. 

It’s even clearer when the guy says, with a hand on his chin and looking right into Jack’s eyes, “Don’t suppose I could get two tall sips of water tonight. Do you think I could?”

Jack would be lying if he said he wasn’t interested. The guy ticks off a lot of his boxes; he’s blond, fit, and has the warmest brown eyes Jack’s ever seen. They’re “s’mores in the backyard” eyes. Homey, even as the guy’s feeding him lines. 

He doesn’t have a chance to open his mouth before two giant guys swoop in looking like a whole defensive line. The taller one, the blond guy with chiclet teeth, says something like “Shitty would be disappointed in you, Bits,” while the other, better-dressed companion picks up Bits’ drink and presses against his hand until Bits takes it. 

“Sorry,” Bits says sheepishly. “I just think you’re exceedingly attractive.”

“That’s an understatement,” the taller guy says in a loud whisper. 

Jack isn’t sure if he’s supposed to hear him or not, so he doesn’t comment. “Here’s your water,” he says, plunking two plastic cups of water next to the vodka lemonade. He keeps his poker face as Bits blushes pinker than his shorts. Bits mumbles a thank you, and his friends bundle him along to where they were sitting. 

“You okay?” Lardo says, sidling up next to him. She reaches for a rag and wipes down the bar where they’re standing. 

Jack says, “Yeah,” and she touches his back briefly in acknowledgement before returning to her end of the bar.

He keeps one eye on Bits — it was Bits, right? No way it’s not a nickname — and his friends, noting how he can see even now how red the guy is. Maybe it’s an alcohol flush by this point, though not from Jack; Bits’ two friends get up now and then and go to Lardo’s side of the bar for refills. 

____________

Two weeks after, Lardo’s gone for an art show and Jack’s alone at the bar. He barely needs to be there, truth be told; the 1pm to 4pm shift at Founders is hardly anything more than a tiny trickle of customers. Today’s no different. He spends his time wiping down the bar and stocking the glasses back on the shelves behind him.

“Hi, sorry, I need the biggest—” 

Jack turns around and the person cuts off and both of them stare at each other for too long. Jack almost drops his glass.

“Hi,” Bits squeaks. He holds tight to his backpack strap and takes a deep breath. “Um. I just — I didn’t know you were here I promise I just really need some alcohol. Like right now. And also, I’m sorry about the other night, I was so over the line — Shitty talked to me about timing and things afterward and I just—”

Jack holds up a hand and Bits stops, seeming grateful. 

“It happens,” Jack says, phrasing it like a question. It’s a weird line to walk, trying to validate the apology while also encouraging the behavior. He doesn’t mind when Bits hits on him.

He adjusts the glass in his hand and adds, “Vodka lemonade, right?” Bits nods. And then, because it had been bothering him for two weeks: “When you say Shitty talked to you, is that — is that a person’s name, or—?”

“Oh, right,” Bits says, and then rushes into an explanation that doesn’t make sense — how do you just not know your friend’s name — until he finishes with, “But yeah, I think it’s just a hockey nickname, none of the other guys on the team know his real name either.”

Jack appraises him levelly, trying to hide the fact that he feels as though he’s been hit by a pan. “You play hockey?”

Bits purses his lips. “I  _ know, _ okay, I get it, I don’t look like I would, because I’m  _ tiny—” _

“That’s not what I meant,” Jack interrupts. He sighs. “I used to play, I didn’t — I wasn’t sure if you were talking to me  _ because _ I used to play, or if you were….”

He trails off, not sure how to finish the sentence. Actually interested? Trying to ask me out? Bits lets him struggle it out, sipping his vodka lemonade intently. Eventually Jack just shrugs.

“Were you really good?” Bits asks, and Jack nods. “Should I know you?”

Jack says, “Part of the reason I like it here is that most guys on the hockey team don’t come in.”

Bits studies him. After a few seconds Jack leans into it and stares back, propping his elbows on the bar top. In the very short time they’ve been talking, he’s seen almost every thought and emotion run across Bits’ face like it was telegraphed just for him. In the silence after Jack’s last sentence, curiosity blooms in Bits’ eyes. 

“My friends thought they recognized you,” Bits says finally. “They were tryin’ to figure out who you reminded them of, but I didn’t even know who Bad Bob Zimmermann was my frog year so I couldn’t really — what’s funny?”

Jack had made a very unattractive snorting noise when he said that. For a brief half-second he debates not telling him; he isn’t trying to be incognito here at Samwell, or he would’ve left after  _ The Swallow _ reported on him during freshman year. He likes his privacy. Growing up Bad Bob’s son means he didn’t get a lot of it, especially after following in his dad’s footprints, and even more so when he fell off the path. 

On the other hand— 

“I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me why you’re at a bar at three o’clock,” Jack says. It sounds playful even to his ears. Bits seems to flush pink, but he tells himself that could just be from the alcohol.

He says, “Failed my French test,” and, before Jack even thinks about what he’s saying he blurts, “I can help you study.”

“What?”

Jack clears his throat. “I’m from Montréal, I’m fluent. Just — I’m sure you have options on campus, but if you wanted—”

It’s a stupid thing to say; of course there are better resources on campus. He kind of wanted to see how Bits’ face would change if he offered, though, and right now Bits’ face is halfway between incredulous and bemused. 

“Thank you,” Bits says, setting his drink down. He extends his hand halfway across the bar. “I’m Eric Bittle, or Bitty, actually — hockey nickname.”

Jack shakes his hand and holds on a little longer than needed. “Jack Zimmermann,” he says, and laughs at the look on Bitty’s face when he pieces together his last name.

____________

They meet a few times over the next two weeks to go over vocab and verb conjugation and, for the most, Jack can convince himself everything between them is just friendly banter. He chirps Bitty about his tweeting habits — “Careful, thumb burnout is a serious problem with the pros these days.” — and Bitty chirps him back about his fashion sense — “Like a grungy, hipster-esque Burger King robber.” — and it’s comfortable. Jack likes rhythm and routine, and these conversations have an ebb and flow that’s easy to fall into. They have a table at Annie’s now. The barista knows their drink orders, and Jack always pretends the music’s too loud whenever Bitty offers to pay.

“You’re already tutoring me for free,” he says sometime during their sixth meeting, and Jack knows him well enough by now to hear the uncertainty in his voice. “Let me at least buy your coffee.”

Jack shrugs. “You tip well,” he says. 

They’re working on conjugating the subjunctive when Bitty brings it up again.

“I just don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you or freeloading or something,” he says in a rush. 

Jack lays the flashcards down on the table, thinking of how best to phrase this.  _ I’d let you take advantage of me _ isn’t exactly what he needs to say, even if he sort of wants to.

“I don’t think that,” he says, “but if you’re really worried about it — which you shouldn’t be — I was, euh. I kind of wanted to see you play sometime, if that was okay?”

Bitty eagerly sets down his flashcards too, saying, “I can get you tickets, there’s one this Friday that’s supposed to be good,” and Jack loses himself momentarily in his  accent _. _

“Would it be possible to get two?” he asks, once he’s come back to himself.

“Of course, sweetpea,” Bitty says. “Whose name should go on it?”

“Larissa Duan,” Jack says. 

Bitty’s smile seems to dim slightly, but it’s back into place so quickly that Jack thinks he’d imagined the slip. 

Bitty just says, “Okay! I’ll text you the info,” and quickly steers the conversation back to the vocab. 

____________

It was Lardo’s idea, really. She’d said something about “Admit that you’re curious and I’ll stop dropping ice down your shirt” last night during a lull, and he hadn’t, and she’d said, “Then stop talking to me about how pretty his eyes are,” and he hadn’t, so she’d put the next ice cube in his pants. Tucking his shirt in had made it worse. So. He can’t be blamed for it. He needed to stop the ice harassment somehow.

Lardo comes out of her room bundled up in every warm layer she owns and the Pens beanie she stole from Jack three years ago. She has a scarf covering the lower half of her face, but Jack’s pretty sure she’s scowling.

“They have heating in the stands,” Jack says. She glares. He holds his hands up. “Just trying to be helpful. Can you put your arms down, or are they stuck like that?”

“I’m wearing two winter coats,” she says, and her voice is muffled by the scarf. “You know I don’t do cold.”

He says, “I’m sorry,” and locks the door behind them.

“No you’re not.”

“I’m really, really not.”

It’s a short drive from their apartment to the rink and forces himself to take a deep, calming breath when they step through the doors. Jack’s mostly severed the pull hockey has on him, treated it like a bad breakup even though there’s still some fondness on both sides. Being here — it’s almost the same as almost every rink he’s ever been to. He knows where the water fountain is almost before they walk past it, can guess exactly what the concession stand’s selling before they see the signs for popcorn and pretzels and hot dogs, knows exactly what the pretzel’s gonna taste like before he bites into it. 

For a startling, stabbing moment he misses it with every molecule of air in his lungs. In another life he would’ve been in the locker room right now eating his pregame peanut butter and jelly. He’d have a jersey with ZIMMERMANN and the number 1 on the back. He would’ve known Bitty sooner, maybe would’ve examined this feeling he has for him sooner, or maybe wouldn’t have. Impossible to say.

A hand on his lower back. “You okay?” Lardo says in a low voice. “You look like you’re freaking out.”

“I’m just thinking about what it would’ve been like to play on this team.”

She loops her arm through his elbow, saying, “Well, you know I love you but I wouldn’t be at your games, that’s for damn sure,” and he knows she’s really saying  _ You’re safe and you’re secure and you made the choices you needed to make for you, and you’re exactly who you need to be right now. _

He says, “I’d make you the manager,” and from the way she lightly punches his side he knows she heard him say,  _ Thank you. _

He spends the game with Lardo’s head on his shoulder, impressed by how fast Bitty is. Even from here he can tell it’d be electric to play on his line. But even from here, he can tell how comfortable he is being in the stands, carefully examining this feeling he has for Bitty, turning it over and over in his hands.

____________

Bitty texts him before their next Annie’s meeting to say he has a group project he needs to work on. And then, before their Wednesday one, saying hockey drained him. It’s “Sorry! There’s a birthday I forgot about” on Friday and “Can we reschedule? I have a paper due tomorrow” the Sunday after, but it’s the “My bad! I have a pie baking in the library” Bitty sends on Tuesday that finally clues him in. Bitty would never leave a pie unattended. Bitty’s avoiding him.

Bitty’s avoiding him. It makes Jack’s stomach feel like it’s adrift at sea without sea legs. He goes over it in his head, trying to figure out if he’d said something rude after the game, but he’d sent a detailed breakdown of why exactly Bitty’s goal was so incredible to watch — including the fries he accidentally spilled on the guy behind him — so he doesn’t think that’s it. 

Maybe the text was a too-obvious indicator of the massive amounts of feelings Jack has for him, or maybe Bitty just figured it out all over time and it freaked it him out. Jack frowns. This is the other problem with the 1pm-4pm shift. Too much time to overthink. 

Lardo shows up at 2pm and tells him not to worry about it, that he’s a goddamn catch and he hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s hard not to think that, though, when Bitty usually blows up his phone with funny tweets or cute animal pictures to give him something to do during this shift. His phone’s silent.

____________

He sees Bitty walk in with a group of his friends and thinks he’s going to have a fucking heartattack. Bitty’s wearing the shortest goddamn shorts he’s ever seen in his life, and his thighs — Jack’s whole brain goes completely empty. His hand is wet before he realizes he’s overfilling some guy’s beer. Lardo raises her eyebrows at him and he shrugs, still helpless in the face of those fucking shorts.

“Jack?”

He turns around, heart threatening to beat out of his chest. He spots Bitty immediately. There’s a moment when Bitty’s face brightens at their eye contact, but then he notices Bitty’s gaze flit down the bar. The brightness subsides.

“Hey,” Jack says, coming over and pretending to be calm. He doesn’t know how to talk to him right now. The week of silence and the shorts are throwing him off. “Vodka lemonade?”

Bitty bites his lip. “Actually — I was wondering if I could talk to you,” he says. He glances around at how busy the bar is, seeming to reconsider. “This is a bad time, isn’t it, I’ll just — nevermind, it’s—”

Jack shakes his head and Bitty cuts off. He cannot, will not, let him backtrack right now. Something feels especially charged right now and he needs to either defuse it or let it shock him into oblivion in the best way, and they can’t just not address it.

“Lards, I need a break,” he calls, and she opens her mouth to say something before spotting Bitty across from him. She jerks her chin in acknowledgement. He ducks underneath the bar and almost takes Bitty’s hand before thinking it might not be what Bitty wants right now. 

Bitty’s eyebrows furrow at the almost-handhold. Jack bites his lip.

“It’s quieter back here,” Jack says, gesturing to a door leading to an alleyway. “They’ll let you back in, you have a stamp.”

Bitty says, “Okay,” and follows him out. 

Jack’s very aware of Bitty’s eyes on him as he leans against the side of the building, unsure of what to do with his hands. He settles for crossing them, then remembers how that signals he’s closed off to the conversation, then rubs his eyes, trying to ward off a headache.

“Can I ask you something first?” he says, face still in his hands. Bitty hums a yes. “Why were you avoiding me?”

Bitty sighs. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says, and now Jack looks at him. He looks miserable. “I was avoiding you because I like you.”

“You — you like me?” Jack asks. It sounds like he doesn’t  _ want _ to like him, and that’s exactly the opposite of what Jack wants, but— 

“Yeah,” Bitty says bitterly. “And I know you have a girlfriend, so I was trying to — distance myself, because I like you too much.”

Jack says, “Girlfriend?” and Bitty crosses his arms.

“I appreciated that you told me in the way you did, instead of makin’ a big deal about it,” he says. “The tickets thing was really smooth. And at first I thought I thought maybe y’all were just friends, but at the game — you just looked so cozy, I didn’t—” He takes a deep breath. “I agreed to French lessons because I need them, but also because I thought maybe you were flirting with me back all those times at Annie’s, but I realize now that was in my head. So I wanted to tell you I’m sorry and that I value your friendship, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

This last part sounds rehearsed in a way that tells Jack he’s been working on this for some time. It makes sense; he can, for the most part, follow the thought process Bitty was working from. There’s just one major hole in the logic.

“Lardo’s not my girlfriend,” Jack says. “I understand if you still want to just be friends, but I really like you, and I was trying to figure out how to ask you on a real date. Without the flashcards this time.”

Bitty’s lips part. “You really like me,” he repeats, sounding dazed. “Lord, but I misread that.”

“It happens,” Jack says softly. 

He doesn’t know what to do now. Everything seems to be standing still; the breeze died down somewhere in the middle of their conversation and even the sound filtering from the bar seems muffled now. If not for a few random insects chirping in the alleyway, Jack would’ve sworn the world was waiting for them to do something.

“So what now,” he says, a question and not. 

Bitty tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” and now Jack pushes off the wall, standing upright. He could be directly in front of Bitty in an instant if he wanted. He wants. They’re so close he can the rise and fall of Bitty’s chest. “—are you free Wednesday? Annie’s?”

“I mean,” Bitty says, looking up through his eyelids as he gently tugs on Jack’s shirt, “I’m free now.”

____________

He was wrong when he thought kissing Bitty would shock him into nothingness, blissed out beyond all sense of knowing. He feels everything in the best way — Bitty’s hands pulling him closer, the softness of his hair, how his lips are a little chapped the way Jack’s always were from being in the rink so much. How much he has to bend over to kiss him and the second Bitty goes on his tiptoes, and then how it tastes to hear  _ pick me up? _ whispered against his mouth, and how Bitty shivers when Jack runs his fingertips along the underside of his thighs. A thrill when Bitty lightly bites his bottom lip.

The door to the bar bangs open and Jack nearly falls over. Lardo, making a point of not looking at them, says, “I need your help when you’re decent,” and closes the door again.

Bitty laughs. Jack buries his head against Bitty’s neck, breathing in his cologne, and kisses him at his pulse under his jaw. He closes his eyes as Bitty plays with his hair.

“I should probably,” he says, carefully setting Bitty down. 

“Yeah,” Bitty says. “Seemed important.”

This time, when Jack reaches out, Bitty laces their fingers together. They step back inside. Jack starts to duck back under the bar but Bitty stops him with a hand on his forearm.

“I’m free on Wednesday,” he says, eyes playful, “if you’ll let me buy the coffee.”

Jack pretends to consider this. “I suppose I’m open to that suggestion.”

“Okay, good,” Bitty says. He stretches up to kiss him again. Jack meets him halfway. “Then it’s a date.”

________________________

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! pls scream w me in the comments or [come find me on Tumblr :)](https://ivecarvedawoodenheart.tumblr.com/)


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